


Escape

by mymishaandjensenfic (ljunattainable)



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Canon Universe, Happy Ending, M/M, No Sex, Some Swearing, Valentines Day Fic, cockles co-operative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 01:05:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9855251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljunattainable/pseuds/mymishaandjensenfic
Summary: Misha's busy, but Jensen's been stood up one too many times.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ESCAPE by Rupert Holmes
> 
> I was tired of my lady, we'd been together too long  
> Like a worn-out recording of a favorite song  
> So while she lay there sleepin', I read the paper in bed  
> And in the personal columns there was this letter I read
> 
> 'If you like Piña Coladas, getting caught in the rain  
> If you're not into yoga, if you have half a brain  
> If you like making love at midnight in the dunes on the cape  
> I'm the love that you've looked for write to me and escape'
> 
> I didn't think about my lady, I know that sounds kinda mean  
> But me and my old lady had fallen into the same old dull routine  
> So I wrote to the paper, took out a personal ad  
> And though I'm nobody's poet, I thought it wasn't half bad
> 
> "Yes, I like Piña Coladas and getting caught in the rain  
> I'm not much into health food, I am into champagne  
> I've got to meet you by tomorrow noon and cut through all this red tape  
> At a bar called O'Malleys where we'll plan our escape"
> 
> So I waited with high hopes and she walked in the place  
> I knew her smile in an instant, I knew the curve of her face  
> It was my own lovely lady and she said, "Oh, it's you?"  
> Then we laughed for a moment and I said, "I never knew"
> 
> "That you liked Piña Coladas and getting caught in the rain  
> And the feel of the ocean and the taste of champagne  
> If you like making love at midnight in the dunes on the cape  
> You're the lady I've looked for, come with me and escape"
> 
> If you like Piña Coladas and getting caught in the rain  
> If you're not into yoga, if you have half a brain  
> If you like making love at midnight in the dunes on the cape  
> I'm the love that you've looked for, write to me and escape
> 
> Yes, I like Piña Coladas and getting caught in the rain  
> I'm not much into health food, I am into champagne  
> I've got to meet you by tomorrow noon and cut through all this red tape  
> At a bar called O'Malleys where we'll plan our escape

**February 12th**

Jensen supposes he’s being unreasonable. 

He knows Misha’s busy, and that he’s busy doing important stuff like running gishwhes, building schools, and fighting for democracy. Actually yeah, there’s no ‘supposes’ about it; he knows he’s being unreasonable. The trouble is though, he’s sitting in a restaurant on his own when Misha should have been here an hour ago, and it’s not the first time Jensen’s been stood up over the past couple of months. Reason doesn’t really enter into it.

He lifts his glass and takes a good glug of the excellent red wine he ordered when he arrived. The bottle sits three-quarters empty on the table, and Jensen’s going to finish it out of spite. It’s Jensen’s favorite restaurant; it’s Misha’s favorite wine. There’re three empty bowls of nibbles on the table: the marinated prawns were by far the best of the three in Jensen’s opinion.

Jensen checks his phone for at least the tenth time, but there’s still no messages from Misha. At least on the other times he texted to apologize. Maybe he doesn’t realize how late it is. Nah. He realizes. He’s just prioritized other stuff before Jensen. Jensen would ring him, except it would sound as if he was being unreasonable.

Jensen wipes his mouth with the napkin and, screwing it up into a tight ball, he drops it onto what would have been Misha’s plate. He stares morosely at the nearly-empty wine bottle but he doesn’t actually want it any more. What he wants is a single-malt scotch whiskey and he has a bottle of 30-year-old Laphroaig at home so he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing sitting around here.

He stands up, pulling out enough cash to cover the food and the wine, and adds a little extra for the inconvenience to the restaurant of hanging on to the table when there are patiently, and impatiently, waiting customers spread out at the bar. 

There are taxis outside, as always, and as Jensen steps towards the first one on the rank, his phone vibrates. A quick glance tells him Misha’s on his way. 

Jensen shoves his phone far down in his pocket, and gets into the taxi. 

**February 13th**

“I went to the restaurant but you weren’t there,” Misha says when he reaches the corner Jensen’s sitting in while he waits for his cue. “You didn’t get my message?” 

Jensen shrugs, not looking up from his script, which he already knows by heart. “I’d already left.”

“I’m really sorry. I was b – “

“You were busy, I know. Doesn’t matter.”

Misha eases himself slowly into the chair next to Jensen like Jensen is a usually-friendly predator, now looking decidedly more predatory. 

“It was February twelfth,” Misha says.

“I know.” Jensen doesn’t know how or why, but February twelfth became their nod to Valentine’s Day and they’ve done something on that day every year since … well, since Jensen sorted his shit out, if he’s honest. It’s a special night, or at least Jensen thought it was, but obviously it’s just him. If it really mattered to Misha, he’d have been there. He grits his teeth. “Doesn’t matter.” 

“It matters to me,” Misha says. Jensen’s fingers curl around the arm of the chair. He can feel Misha watching him. His face warms with simmering anger. “Jensen? Let me –”

And suddenly Jensen’s anger is at boiling point. Yes, it fucking mattered. He pushes himself up and leans forward so his face is inches from Misha’s. Misha startles and he tries to lean back but Jensen follows him until Misha can’t go any further.

“Then where the hell were you?” Jensen yells. He’s vaguely aware of the sudden silence around them, but he’s got momentum now and he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to, but he at least lowers his voice. “Where were you if it matters so much to you?” Jensen’s hands grip the wooden arms of Misha’s chair for balance as he leans forward. Misha stares at him, their faces so close that Misha’s just a blur in Jensen’s vision. “Where the fuck is your ‘it matters to me’ now, huh?”

Jensen lets go of Misha’s chair and lashes out at the chair he just vacated, knocking it to the ground. Someone nearby actually gasps. 

“It’s not even the first time, is it? Didn’t I feel like a dick going to some arty-farty indie movie theater on my own to see a movie you were so fucking enamored with.” 

Misha sits still, not saying a word, not trying to defend himself or argue back. Hurt, or maybe guilt, registers in his eyes, and Jensen’s momentum falters. He takes a step away from Misha’s chair.

He didn’t mean to make a big thing of this. Or maybe subconsciously he did. They see little enough of each other as it is, and as they’ve found out in the past, it’s easier to fall out of a relationship than into one. 

“Tomorrow night,” Misha says.

Jensen looks at him in confusion. “What?”

“Let’s go out tomorrow night,” Misha says. Jensen just stares at him, because maybe Misha’s missed the point. It’s not about one night. But Misha seems to take this as encouragement. “I’ll make it up to you.”

In five minutes Jensen has to act all slap-happy in front of the camera because a hunt went right for a change. He shouldn’t be having this conversation right now. It’s going to fuck up his acting.

“I’m not being stood up on Valentine’s Day.”

“Boys,” a deep voice interrupts confidently, and its owner, Phil, the episode’s director, a large man, taller than Jensen, and twice as broad comes to a halt between them and to one side, feet planted firmly on the tarmac. “Take thirty minutes. Do what you need to do, but be back here in thirty. Clear?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just walks away. Jensen rubs the back of his neck.

“I won’t stand you up,” Misha says. 

Jensen turns and stares at the horizon. He focuses on the tip of a pine tree waving languidly in the breeze. 

“I’m still mad. I’ll probably still be mad tomorrow. It’s not a good idea.”

“When then? Any time, you pick.”

“I’m not your priority right now,” Jensen says, turning to look down at Misha. “Don’t pretend that I am.”

It’s baldly stated, and Misha looks shocked, but it’s true whether Misha likes it or not. 

\-----------

There are two types of people in this world: those that admit to liking Pina Colada, and idiots. Jensen falls firmly in the idiot camp, which means that the people who know he loves the tropical-tasting cocktail in all it’s pineapple, cherry and fancy umbrella decorated glory he can count on the fingers of one hand. 

He shrugs off his jacket and hangs it behind the door. He’s been carrying it around all day because of threatened rain that never came.

He picks up the glass, damp with condensation, and he takes a sip, closing his eyes, and rolling the flavors around with his tongue. It’s still cold. 

The number of people who know he loves Pina Colada and who are still on set at two in the morning he doesn’t need a whole hand of fingers for. Jared knows, but he’s not here. Misha’s here, but he doesn’t know because it’s one of those things where the time to tell someone you’re close to something like that has been and gone. Mark’s here, but again he doesn’t know, and Jensen is never, ever going to tell him because he’d never hear the end of it.

But Kevin Parks is here because he’s doing the assistant director job on this episode, and he knows because Jensen got a little too tipsy once and Kevin gave him a ride home. Kevin then. Jensen takes a mouthful, but even the sweetly alcoholic flavor can’t wash away the bitter taste left after his argument with Misha.

He’s not angry any more, but he’s sad. He – they – always knew they wouldn’t see a whole lot of each other. Even from the beginning it’s been making the most of what they can get. But now? What worries Jensen is that their relationship isn’t sustainable if they can’t both commit to the necessary time. It doesn’t mean he loves Misha any less, or vice versa, he knows that, but are they drifting towards different paths? If they can’t spend time together, what’s the point?

He puts down his drink, unfinished. He’s not in the mood for frivolity, apparently. 

**February 14th**

The next day it’s pouring, but Jensen doesn’t mind. The rain makes him feel buoyant and awake, and he shakes the water off his jacket while he’s still wearing it, like a dog. Misha hands him a towel for his hair with a smile that’s welcoming but also a little wary, but he needn’t worry; Jensen’s not going to bring up yesterday if Misha doesn’t.

He looks around the lot. There’s a group of people standing by one of the cameras staring into its innards, there’s two more banging nails into a set wall, the red-head from makeup looking bored with the bag containing the tools of her trade swinging from one hand, and Phil, the director, is shuffling around staring at a corner set from different angles.

Jensen can’t see anyone looking for him, which is why he’s here. “Who needed me?”

Misha hands Jensen a hot chocolate. “Um, I did,” Misha says, looking sheepish. “I thought you’d like a walk in the rain.”

Jensen reaches for the hot chocolate. For a moment his hand wraps around Misha’s and he squeezes, before taking the drink and blowing on it to cool it down. Jensen feels a rush of affection, then worry. What if this is it? What if their relationship is destined to consist of moments spent drinking hot chocolate in the rain? 

He clears his throat. “So tell me what’s happening,” he says. He sits on the chair Misha obviously brought out ready.

“Well,” Misha starts, then he tells Jensen about Gishwhes and Trump, and articles and papers he’s writing, and how the two production projects he’s got on are going, and Darius’ latest visit, and how Phil’s a saint for keeping on top of Nicaragua practically single-handed. And of course, being Misha, it’s funny. It all sounds like a comedy of errors and soon Jensen’s laughing. 

He wishes there weren’t other people around. He wishes they could go out and have dinner and then back to Jensen’s apartment for whisky, and sleep together in Jensen’s bed, and in the morning they’d make love with their first cups of coffee and tea getting cold on the nightstands.

He wishes. But when Misha suggests dinner again, he shakes his head.

“You do what you have to do. Maybe next week.”

“I’m not here next week.”

The story of their lives.

\-----------

Someone fucked up, so Jensen and Jared get back from their brief unplanned excursion to re-do some shots on the second set at three. Clif drops them at their trailers then drives the car around to park nearby. The unscheduled trip means they might finish later tonight but Jensen doesn’t mind. It’s not as if he’s got anything planned.

“Do you want that game back?” Jensen asks, suddenly remembering the disc sitting on his coffee table, as Jared peels off towards his own trailer.

Jared turns on his heel to change direction. “Sure.” Then he looks around, and behind them and presumably seeing they’re alone, he says, “Um…you and Misha?” tentatively.

Jensen sighs. He’s surprised it’s taken Jared this long. “Who told you?” he grumbles. 

“So you and Misha did have a row!” Jared says, wide-eyed. “You guys never argue. Was he unfaithful? Were you?” Mildly amused, Jensen shakes his head. Like either of them would have the time. “Forgot your birthday? Wow, it took you a while to build up to that one if it was that. Didn’t wash the dishes? Oh my God, he couldn’t get it u – “

“Jared,” Jensen warns. 

“Well what then? Is it funny? Not funny? Actually, you don’t look as if it’s funny.”

“It’s petty,” Jensen says, walking sideways up the trailer steps. He throws Jared a rueful glance as he grabs the door handle. “But also not.”

“Tell Uncle Jared everything,” Jared says, as Jensen opens the trailer door and steps inside. Then he promptly trips over something on the mat and nearly falls flat on his face.

Jensen’s regaining his equilibrium when Jared waves a purple rubber mat in his face. “Damn stupid place to do yoga if you ask me.”

Jensen snatches the mat away and stares at it in disgust. “I don’t do yoga anywhere. I don’t even own a yoga mat.”

“You do now,” Jared says. Jensen scowls at him. He carries the mat further into the trailer and flings it into a corner to be disposed of later. It better not be someone’s unsubtle hint about how inflexible he’s getting in his old age.

Jensen picks up Jared’s game and turns around to find Jared sniffing suspiciously at the half-empty Pina Colada glass from last night that Jensen never got around to clearing away. 

“Things must have been rough for you to make yourself this drink.”

“I didn’t make it,” Jensen says. He hands Jared the game and takes the glass, putting it by the kitchen sink. “Kevin did.”

“Kevin?”

“Kevin Parks. He’s the only one who was here last night who knows I drink the stuff.” 

Jensen takes off his jacket, which hasn’t dried since he got caught in the rain earlier, so he hangs it in front of the heater, and turns the heating up a little to warm up the trailer.

“Weren’t you filming with Misha?” Jared asks, picking a crossword up off the table. It’s been drawn out by hand and Jensen’s never seen it before. 

“Misha doesn’t know,” Jensen says. He points his finger at Jared. “And don’t tell him.”

“Yeah, no, obviously not. Fuck.”

“Jared, you didn’t?” Jensen says, but he already knows the answer.

“Misha might know,” Jared admits, looking guilty. “Look,” he says, waving his arms around, “In my defense I thought he already knew. I mean how long have you two been … you know … well, long enough that he knows what your secret drunken tipple is, surely?” Jensen wipes a hand over his face. Oh well, it’s not that bad he supposes. “And two down is ‘Spain’ by the way.”

“What?” Jensen refocuses.

“Spain. Three across is ‘den’, Four across is ‘man’.” Jensen snatches the piece of paper out of Jared’s hands.

Five down is ‘ten’. What is he doing. He waves the paper around. “I don’t even know what this is.”

“Oh. My. God.” Jared says. He spits out a laugh. “I don’t suppose you and Misha ever, um, you know, um, at any dunes at midnight.”

Jensen turns away. He can feel himself going red. There was that one time they went to Wickaninnish but jeez, the sand got everywhere. And he means everywhere. That was the least romantic encounter he’s ever had.

“Never,” he says.

“Dude, I can see the back of your neck going pink. Do you want to know what’s going on or don’t you?”

Jensen whips around. Jared’s grinning like the Cheshire cat. “You know?”

Jared rubs his hands together with obvious glee. “Yep. And it’s corny as hell. You weren’t doing anything tonight were you?”

“No,” Jensen says slowly.

“Well you are now.”

\-----------

Jensen trusts Jared. Well, up to a point. But he trusts him on this. Even though the bastard wouldn’t tell Jensen exactly what was going on, he assured him it wasn’t anything bad. 

Between them they’d worked out the crossword clues. ‘Spain, tapas, ten, pm, Denman, St’. There’s a Spanish restaurant in Vancouver on Denman Street called Espana. Jensen’s fond of it though he doesn’t go there often as they don’t take reservations so by the time they get off work it’s usually already full. Still, he’s heading there now, in a taxi just in case he decides to get drunk. 

He really hopes it’s not going to be a pity Valentines threesome with Jared and Gen. That doesn’t make any sense, but nor does much else. 

The taxi pulls up and Jensen pulls out his phone and his wallet. He’s under instructions to text Jared when he gets here. He hands his credit card to the driver and types a quick. ‘I’m here, what now?’ into his phone while he waits for the payment to process. He thanks the driver and climbs out of the taxi.

As expected, Espana is busy and people walking in hoping for a table are being turned around at the door. Jensen fiddles with his phone impatiently. Where the hell’s Jared? He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He enjoys going out, and he enjoys going out with different people, but on February fourteenth, he doesn’t really want to be out with anyone except Danneel or Misha, sad though that is.

His phone buzzes. People are walking past glancing his way. Enough people recognize him to make him uncomfortable. He smiles and waves back when they wave, and swipes at the notification on his phone to view the message Jared sent.

'If you like Piña Coladas, getting caught in the rain  
If you're not into yoga, if you have half a brain  
If you like making love at midnight in the dunes on the cape  
I'm the love that you've looked for write to me and escape'

Jensen knows the song, everyone knows the song. He’s forgotten some of the words but he knows the story it tells. And at that point Jensen knows who he’s meeting in Espana, and smiles, but he’s also nervous. What if he isn’t there?

There’s a picture of Jensen at the greeters podium. The greeter smiles at him. “Your friend has been holding the table since we opened,” she says with a sweet smile. Jensen’s automatic impulse to correct friend to colleague gets stuck in his throat. 

“Yeah. He likes tapas,” he says. He gets the blank stare he rightly deserves for that inane comment and is handed over to an over-enthusiastic waiter.

Jensen spots Misha before Misha spots Jensen. Jensen thought he’d be on his phone working away at whatever it is he needs to do, doing as much as he can before Jensen arrives. But he isn’t. he’s sitting there looking anxious, not smiling, picking at a napkin, slowly tearing it into tiny pieces. He’s looking down at the table and he only looks up when Jensen and the waiter stop by the table and cast a shadow over his paper art.

“Your table, Sir,” the waiter says to the air in general, and disappears.

Misha looks up at him, and slowly starts smiling. Jensen smiles to match, then snorts a laugh. He pulls out the chair opposite and sits, still smiling.

“Let’s plan our escape,” Misha says.


End file.
